Bad Hair Day
by rabidcrazygirl
Summary: Perhaps frizzy hair isn't so bad after all...DRR, through and through. Rated for language.


**Bad hair days. We've all had them, and we know how horrible they can be. But perhaps they _aren't_ that bad for Special Agent Monica Reyes—at least where her partner is concerned…**

**Yeah, yeah, yeah. Disclaimer. You get the picture.**

"Dammit!" Monica screamed, throwing her hairbrush at the wall. Her frustration knew no bounds. She stared angrily at the mirror in front of her as her hands raked through the mess of brown hair that simply refused to lie in any sort of determinable order.

She'd tried water. She'd tried curlers. She'd tried hair spray. She'd almost gone as far as to try gel, but had pulled herself back at the last minute. Hair gel was a bad move—it looked terrible on her, and it was a sign of extreme desperation if she even considered it. She wasn't even sure why she had any in her apartment!

_Okay, Mon,_ she thought to herself, taking deep breaths. _You've really got to just calm yourself down. It's not that bad. You'll just wear your hair back in a ponytail today. Or braid it. It's not the end of the world._ Slowly, so as not to make any sudden movements that might startle herself, she crossed the room to retrieve her poor, abused brush.

Normally she wouldn't have gotten so worked up about one stupid bad hair day. She'd even gotten used to it a bit—the humidity _always_ played merry hell with her hair, making it frizz out uncontrollably. But today was _important_. Today she had to make a major presentation about the X Files and it's progress to Kersh, and she couldn't do that if she looked terrible. Well, she could, but her confidence would be shot straight to hell. _And there is nothing more nerve-wracking than standing in front of a room of men who probably hate you and telling them things they don't want to hear when you look like crap._

The steady strokes of the brush finally brought her back to reality and forced her to calm down. Glancing at her watch, she realized that she had to leave if she was going to be at work on time, and she grabbed her purse and ran out the door.

Half and hour later, she slammed into the basement office, disturbing her partner, who had been leafing through some case files. He glanced up at her, blue eyes inquisitive, and immediately saw her distress. "What's wrong, Mon?" he asked.

_Oh, yeah,_ thought Monica, standing stupidly in the doorway. _That's the other reason why I hate coming to work when I look horrible._

She guessed that it had always been there—the affection for her partner. Frankly, she couldn't remember a time when she _didn't_ feel something special for the man. And ever since they'd been partnered together, it had gotten steadily worse. She saw the man practically _every day_, spent a great deal of time in close proximity with him, constantly dodging the pair of ice-blue eyes that threatened to sear her very soul.

She cleared her throat slightly. "Just kind of nervous about the presentation today," she said, aware of how lame it sounded. The words hung in the air between them as her partner raised an eyebrow slightly—he could tell that there was something more going on with her.

"Uh-huh," he said. "Well, don't worry about it. What's the worst they can do?"

"Fire us," Monica replied dryly, sitting down and taking a stack of note cards out of her purse. She leafed through them, going over the information one last time.

"Well, I'll be in there too," John said. "They'll have to take on both of us. And we've got guns."

"Ha-ha," Monica said in a tense voice, her eyes fixed on the little 5x8 cards in front of her. Her tone must have registered with her partner, though, because she immediately felt a strong, warm hand on her own.

"Hey," John said. Monica didn't look up at him, so he gently lifted her chin so that she looked him in the eye. "What's this really about?"

"Nothing!" Monica exclaimed in a brittle voice. _Dammit, he's so close. Why does he have to smell so good? This is _not_ good for my nerves. And since when have I cared about my nerves? I'm acting so fucking girly today! _Dammit!

John shook his head slightly. "Don't try to lie, Mon," he said softly. "I know you too well for that. Now—are you goin' to tell me?"

_I may as well,_ Monica thought to herself. _The worst that could happen is he loses all respect for me. Forever._

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "It really is nothing," she said, giving a slight, self-mocking smile. "I'm just having a bad hair day, and, what with the presentation and all, it's really stressing me out."

John searched her eyes for a moment. Seeing that she was telling the truth, he gave a slight laugh and sat back in his own chair. "Is that all that it was? I was afraid that someone had died!"

Monica smiled a real smile, and shook her head. "No. I just hate having to wear my hair in a pony tail. It looks awful."

Her partner stood and walked around his desk to stand in front of her. "What, this?" he asked, pulling slightly at a strand of hair that had escaped her hair tie and fallen to frame her face. "I like it."

Monica beamed up at him, feeling a bit of the stress drain away. Their eyes locked, brown on blue, and suddenly the rest of the world seemed to fade. John's finger softly brushed her cheek, and Monica's hand lifted to cup it, leaning her face into his hand. She pressed a kiss on his fingers, and a small but beautiful smile lit her face. Eager to discover what that smile tasted like, John leaned down, closer, closer, closer—

"Er…Agents?" came a slightly confused voice from behind them. Both of them whirled, bright-red in the face, to see Kersh's secretary standing in the doorway, looking utterly bewildered. "Um…Assistant Director Kersh…he'll see you now," she stammered out. "Um…what—"

John cut her off. "Tell him we'll be right there." Obviously eager for the chance to get away, the young woman practically ran out the door.

Monica slowly turned to meet her partner's eyes. "Well, that was embarrassing," she commented lightly. John grinned.

"Think she'll tell him?" he wanted to know. Monica shook her head.

"I think that she'll convince herself that she never saw it," she said. She stood, gathering together her note cards and slinging her purse back over her shoulder.

"Saw what?" John asked, with a mischievous look on his face. Monica faced him with an equally mischievous look in her eyes.

"I don't know, partner," she said. "Perhaps you should show me?"

John crossed the distance between them with one stride. "I think Kersh will forgive us for being a couple minutes late to the meeting," he said, face inches away from hers. Monica giggled, and closed the door behind her.

**Lovely lovely lovely fluff. Lovely lovely lovely characters. Lovely lovely lovely reviews.**

**Well, we've got the first two. How about some of the third? Pretty please?**


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